


She Walks Over Me

by lanawintrs



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Dacryphilia, F/M, Face-Sitting, Is this fandom dead lol, Mommy Kink, michael has no boundaries, sub!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27186497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanawintrs/pseuds/lanawintrs
Summary: Michael Langdon is the snake in your garden, he's your enemy, and yes - it's that simpleAKA the one where Michael likes it when you're mean to him
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Reader, Michael Langdon/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 100





	She Walks Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> Um so this is an old fic from like 2018, it was on my tumblr before I deleted the account. I recently found a way to access my blog and found this! It's my favorite one and I'm gladly dusting it off to post it again. If you remember this fic or my old account, I just want to say thanks for all the support I had gotten back then! And if you're new than thanks for reading :)

“You don’t have to follow this path your father laid out for you.”

Michael refuses to look away, even as his shoulders begin to shake with a raw, all too familiar emotion.

“You can write your own destiny. You can still turn away.”

He’s unwilling to back down, even as his eyes become glazed with a new layer of tears, because he can’t - because the Antichrist can’t fail. He has been let down a multitude of times by his own family, and now, now that he’s found his purpose, it's him who's letting down the person who gave it to him.

Not to mention his last ally, burnt at the stake while he was out meditating in the woods.

“There’s humanity in you,” Cordelia Goode - the true Supreme, his  _ enemy  _ \- her unsought kindness swallows him whole, as big as the sea. “I see it, Michael.”

It dawns on him, that everything she is, is what he’s been searching for in every soul that he’s so eagerly latched onto: her sincerity, her ferociousness, her strength. If anyone could help him, help him become the man his grandmother wanted him to be, it was Cordelia Goode, with all her endless power.

Michael has to blink, to stop the tears from dripping onto his cheeks.

“If you come with me, maybe we can find it.”

She extends her hand and he - he just stares, stupefied for the first time in forever, and quickly bites his lip in an attempt to hide a sob that so desperately wants to escape. She only studies him in return, silent, filled with patience. He swallows, and wills his chin to stop trembling, shifting his weight, no longer making a conscious effort to seem put together.

Michael knows what he looks like, on his knees, lost, alone, his eyes too soft and his face vulnerable.

It’s a split-second decision, when he grabs her hand and uses it as support to lift himself up. He notices her mouth twitch, an effort on her own part to fight a smile, he assumes. There’s no desire left in him to make her hope die faster than smoke dissipated from an extinguished candle flame.

There’s not enough words to describe how dangerously stupid it is to betray his father. There’s not enough time to even consider all of the consequences.

He sighs, looking up, meeting her eye, and he searches and searches and searches, looking for the courage to do what he wanted when he asks, “Why?”

She provides him solace from the scorching sun as her umbrella moves above his head. Cordelia doesn’t let go of him, and he’s grateful, sure that his knees could give out at any moment.

“ _ Why _ ?” He repeats. 

She doesn’t speak, not for a moment - she has to give herself a second to close her eyes and gather her thoughts, and she reminds herself that this might be her last chance to change the future, to save her girls, the world - she has his attention and she couldn’t afford to lose it.

She squeezes his hand.

His heart stutters like it’s gotten stuck in his throat.

“I believe that with the right guidance, you can do great things, Michael,” she says finally. “The world doesn’t have to end by your hands.”

“Won’t it end by my father’s hand instead?” he snaps, the sound of his voice cutting through the air with the sharpness of a flicked whip. She doesn’t flinch. “If I don’t finish this, then my father will do it himself.”

“Then we stop him, together.”

He’s not sure if he believes it.

But he wants to. He wants to believe that the humanity in him can win over the wretchedness. That he can be strong enough to - 

He doesn’t need to find the words that would describe how dangerously stupid it is to betray his father, he knows - he is a more devil than man, slave to his demonic instincts and ineptness in human mannerisms, and there’s no reasons to be, well, good, not after Constance or Ben or Tate or Vivian. There’s nothing left. But -

But he wants to try.

.*.*.*

His name is Michael Langdon, and he’s the Antichrist, an evil and remorseless and cunning being.

And you don’t know much more about the boy Cordelia brought back to the coven - you don’t want to stay long enough to learn more. You love your Supreme, you really do, but you can’t justify her decision to invite a snake in Robichaux’s, to put your sisters at risk.

If you were her, in that moment, you would’ve tried killing him right where he stood.

(“The Sight has shown me that he’s capable of change” she says as she plucks dusty tomes written in ancient and dead languages from the library’s shelves. “It’s up to us to show him the profit of giving into his humanity.”)

It’s all  _ bullshit _ , if you’d say so yourself.

You fold another shirt, pack another pair of pants, take the hanger off your favorite dress, before a knock sounds at the door. You have half a mind to ignore it, but, much to your annoyance, the person behind it opens the door without waiting for your approval.

You really needed to get better at locking your door.

And you can’t be completely upset, because it’s Coco, with an all too sweet smile tugging at the corners of her lips and a nervousness that makes her fiddle with her fingers as she asks you, “can I come in?”

The following silence is tense and strained and the only thing you can do is silently nod before trying to focus on the clothes strewn across your bed. She clears her throat, and carefully steps inside, like she’s approaching a wild animal. You hear her inhale, drawing in a breath that’s sharp and shaky and another break in her composure.

“You’re really leaving?” She all but whispers, and you don’t even have to look at before tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, and your chest hurts, aching from the severed tendons of your heartstrings. You don’t really want to leave, and It’s really not fair, but the destroyer of worlds is eating toast in your kitchen like he’s a welcomed guest -

“Yeah,” you say, folding faster, too cowardly to face her, even when she sniffles. “I’m - I can’t watch my coven be torn apart. Not again. Michael, he has us right where he wants us. He’s probably plotting to kill us all in our own haven.”

“I think you should stay,” Coco mutters, moving closer to stand near you, very obviously as ready to break down as you are. She places her hand over yours, and you’re startled into dropping the shirt in your hand. Your lip trembles and you flex your empty hands and the next breath you take comes out as a shuddering whimper. “You - We can trust Cordelia. I believe her, (y/n). I think he really wants to change.”

You sigh.

A sudden flash of white hot, corrosive irritation drives you to spin and face her, clenching your fists hard enough to dig half-crescents into the thin skin of your palms, and you have to remind yourself to not take out your anger on the woman in front of you. You were her first friend at Miss Robichaux’s, the first to break through her rock-hard ego - you’d like to keep some semblance of the bond between you’ve built before you leave.

“We can’t blindly trust others, not even the Supreme,” you retort, the muscles in your shoulders tensing as you hold back the malice in your tone. “Our last Supreme almost ran this place into the ground and you weren’t here for it, but I was -” a gasp clogs the words from leaving your mouth. You let out a breath and your brows pull together.

“We almost all died, Coco, and now the past is repeating itself because of Cordelia’s blindness!”

“I’ve been practicing - with my powers, and I’m not sure yet, but I think I can sense danger in people.” she perks up, her voice a mixture of uneasiness and excitement, and it’s altogether almost easy to forget what you were talking about. “And with Michael, it’s there, but it’s not like, Antichrist there.”

You vaguely register the thought of what the fuck, before she continues.

“He might still act like a douche, but he’s not gonna go all Rambo on us.”

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Yes!”

Something replaces the pain in your chest, something that feels like electricity, and you’re not sure if it’s relief or not - you talk before you think too much about it. “I’ll give him a month. And I’m gonna be keeping my eye on hi-”

Coco makes some piercing sound that you can only describe as a squeal, and flings herself into your body, burying her face into the crook of your neck when your arms wrap around her too. You stand there like that for a while, your friend quivering with the force of relieved not-quite cries, and you hold her, wondering if you’ll have to watch the destruction of your coven all over again.

.*.*.*

Over the course of the next week, you manage to avoid speaking to the newest addition in the Academy. It wasn’t particularly hard, you just - take extra care in making sure it didn’t happen.

Somedays, though, care didn’t really matter.

Today, you’re rushing into the library, late for the course you were teaching, and catch a glimpse of sharp cheekbones and blonde curls and bright eyes, watching the tilt of his head as you scramble to the group. He shouldn’t even be in this class, his magic or whatever else it’s considered is endlessly more powerful than yours.

You’d have to talk to Cordelia about it later.

You try not to look at him while you teach, and he’s content to do the opposite. Every time your gaze passes over him, he’s watching you like he’s looking for something, and it’s hard to not see him in your peripheral, hard not to notice when his tongue flickers out and over his bottom lip before he asks you some stupid, pointless question that you know he knows the answer to -

You answer, moving on with the lesson.

.*.*.*

You stay awake at night, wondering if your Supreme told the warlocks about keeping their boy wonder alive.

.*.*.*

He’s handsome. You’re not blind, you can objectively recognize that he’s handsome.

It’s a fact, and nothing about your opinion goes into it.

Michael starts showing up to each of your classes, encouraged by Cordelia to learn more about his own skills.

(you think it’s stupid to teach him, because he’ll be more than willing to use your own witchcraft against you when the time comes.)

He comes up with increasingly intricate questions that force you to draw out an answer that couldn’t be explained in a simple sentence. He always wants to check over his work with you, trying to see if everything was done correctly, even though you both already know it was.

“So?” he just stares at you, waiting for your approval, and you almost get lost because his eyes are so blue and bright and piercing. He’s much taller than you, and he peers down at you in a way that makes you feel even smaller, makes you want to curl into yourself, and it’s something you don’t enjoy thinking about, but it’s hard not to when he’s standing so close.

Your exhale is barely audible, and he raises an eyebrow, waiting expectantly, and you think about how opposed Cordelia would be if you kicked him out of the class. Permanently.

“It looks great, Michael.” you say after a pause that’s too long. “Good job.”

He smiles, and you would say it looks slightly sheepish if you didn’t know any better. It’s cute though, and admitting that to yourself isn’t comfortable at all, it’s more of a sensation that makes your stomach tighten in a way you refuse to read into. “Thank you, (y/n).”

You return his smile and hope he doesn’t realize how forced it is.

He doesn’t seem to care anyways.

.*.*.*

You tell Cordelia that you want to stop teaching that night. You don’t tell her the real reason why.

She tells you to take a break from leading the potion classes, sort out whatever trepidations you were feeling about the material or your emotions or whatever else. She wants you to go back to it, that much you know - you decide not to tell her that you’re already half gone.

.*.*.*

The second week goes smoother.

The Academy is huge, a cluster of carefully assorted corridors and rooms with secret passageways, and with all the newer witches filling up the space, it’s almost laughable, easy it’s become to avoid the boy - even luckier for you, your room was on the opposite side of the manor from his.

In the absence of your usually scheduled class time, you find the time to relax, put down your spell book and take a breather. You invite your friends to hang out over the next few days, occasionally going out with Madison or having a movie night with Queenie or helping Coco test her powers - and you spend your time talking and laughing in between your own research.

You’ve been brushing up on your own studying, trying to learn more offensive spells, trying to strengthen your craft in order to -

You take a deep breath, and exhale.

Michael is not going to get under my skin, you think and try not to think about how it’s becoming a habit to lie to yourself.

You drop your towel and wrap it around your head, standing tall in front of the full-length mirror. You rub in the dampness on the nape of your neck before trailing it down to your chest. It stays there, absentmindedly drawing loose patterns as you stare at your reflection.

You pose for yourself, working with a confidence that’s anchored safely at your core of your chest. And it’s no lie to say you’ve changed over the years, with thin scars interrupting the color of your skin and muscles sculpted from training. Yeah, magic was good and all, but physical fitness was something you never really cared about before you came to Robichaux’s, and you’ve learned that it gives you an extra advantage where your witchcraft was deficient. 

You can appreciate your naked form in all its rawness, and can feel comfortable even in its absolute vulnerability.

Suddenly, you know you aren’t alone - the air disturbed behind you, particles brushing against your bare back and goosebumps multiplying on your arms - 

“Do you typically leave your door open?”

Your eyes flicker upwards to look at his reflection and a scowl tugs the corners of your lips downwards when you notice there’s nothing there. You roll your eyes and spin, the towel staying on your head as you face the blond without even bothering to cover your body. 

“Nice trick, Sabrina,” you hiss as you cross your arms. “Do you sneak up on all the other girls?”

And then Michael smiles.

His lips are mostly closed except for a sliver of teeth showing, light eyes observing you so very carefully. He pauses as he reaches the swell of your breasts, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and when he looks back up into your eyes, you see the lust you’d been expecting. The Antichrist is not as good at masking his emotions as he thinks he is.

“I don’t make a habit of it, no,” he breathes. “I wanted to have a word with you, and you haven’t exactly been making yourself -” you keep your face still, void of expression as he leans in a bit closer. “ _ Available _ .”

Your composure breaks, features twisting from deep-seated incredulity. “So you barge in and stay when you see I’m naked?”

Michael takes a step forward, tucking in the towel behind your ear like it was hair and purrs, “I couldn’t help myself, I was -  _ distracted  _ by the view.” He suddenly steps back and speaks louder when he says, “You don’t seem to mind too much.”

You hesitate, lost for words, and for the first time feel a flush that crawls down and settles into the plains of your chest. You wonder if he could tell that your nipples are pebbles under your crossed arms.

The sight of his smirk makes you clench your teeth so hard you swear you almost chip a tooth.

Unconcerned with exposing yourself, you drop your arms and pinch his chin in your hand, squeezing hard as his cheeks turn pink. His pupils dilate, gaze fluttering between your eyes and your breasts until another hard squeeze sets it on your face.

The air feels electric.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you question through clenched teeth, fighting back satisfaction as his smile loses its conviction. “I do my best to ignore you and yet you’re everywhere I go. Why can’t you take a hint?”

Something in him changes at the dominance in your tone, his eyes flash with something you can’t quite place and he sort of tenses, tightening the muscles in his jaw only to relax in a few seconds.

Michael’s mouth parts, but he swallows back his words as pull him in closer. 

“So quiet now.”

Despite yourself, you find your fingers tracing his pout to feel his breath stutter under the movement. You notice how he fails to keep his eyes open, the way his flush colors his face a bright red, the sense of power intoxicating. 

And then his tongue flicks out, licking the tips of your fingers before you - or he, because you're too hazy to properly recall - slips the digits past his lips.

You blink. You laugh.

“Is this why you talk so much?” you push your fingers deeper, prompting him to grab your wrist and  _ suck _ . “You wanted me to shut you up?” 

You push and push, testing his gag reflex, feeling delighted as he just  _ takes  _ it. He’s still looking down at you, eyes hazy and glazed over and pleading when you pull your hand back. 

You wipe his salva right back onto his face.

“I’m not going to indulge your issues, Michael,” you say. 

He whines with the petulance of the child, just strained enough for you to catch it.

“Leave.”

.*.*.*

Michael keeps his distance for a while after walking in on you, and you’re both relieved and disappointed at the fact. You tell Cordelia that you want to start the class again, unwilling to let him intimidate you after he submitted to you so easily. You don’t find yourself particularly anticipating the class, regardless, you plan to keep it light with some simple salutem potions, and maybe you’ll even finish it early.

For fuck’s sake -

There isn’t rest for the weary; he still shows up for class, but he stays silent, doesn’t bother you with the pointless questions, though sometimes - sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking, he stares - and it’s been second nature for you to read his moods, but at times like this, his eyes become unreadable in the dim lights of the library.

When you finally catch his eye, you raise an eyebrow, daring him to test you.

He looks away.

You make sure to ignore him for the remainder of the lecture.

When the class ends, he’s the last one to leave, he stays put in his seat while the others leave. You tuck the book under your arm and neatly stack the last container on the top of the pile. You feel his eyes on you - not seeing it as much as a sense of awareness washes over you, and it’s a new feeling, no longer uncomfortable.

It’s - 

It’s  _ different _ .

Something has changed, where you’re somehow more hyper-aware of everything and completely unable to stop yourself from sparing him a glance You risk sparing him a glance when he doesn’t break the quiet. 

“Is there something I can do for you, Michael?”

His eyes snap to yours, and he blinks, lazily, like he didn’t quite hear you. You repeat yourself, watching with a growing sense of gratification as his lips part even though he can’t form the words to tell you whatever was on his mind. His brows furrow, silent, before he shakes his head ‘no.’

He’s still in his seat when you leave the room.

Over the course of the next two hours, you eat dinner with Madison and Zoe and Queenie. And it’s nice. The four of you haven’t spent a moment as a group since Michael brought them back, and catching up is tense at first, with Zoe still bitter over Kyle’s death, but with a few well-timed jokes and heartfelt apologies, your dynamic becomes almost like the old times.

The fierce protectiveness for your sisters only grows more from the nostalgia, and you make your way back to your room with a heavy heart when you’re all finished reconnecting, wondering what the future has in store -

A curious sound catches your attention when you're near your door, and you frown, straining to listen harder.

A  _ moan _ .

From your bedroom.

You keep your movements quiet, turning the doorknob and slowly walking in as another moan sounds from your bed. Fucking Michael.

He’s sat on the bed with one large hand wrapped around his cock and the other holding a pair of panties - a little lacy pair fresh from your laundry basket - to his nose. He stroked himself, clothed hips stuttering under his grip as a name, your name, spills from his full lips.

He moans again, and your chest tightens at the noise - it’s soft, it’s long, it’s relieved, and you like it  _ too  _ much.

You find yourself slinking towards him, itching to get closer to him - his eyes snap open and up when the floorboards creak under your weight. You both freeze. He stares wide eyed at you, and you just look back, stupefied. “What the hell are you doing?” Unintentionally, your voice drops into a low whisper, and the tone has you wondering why you don’t snatch your underwear from his hands and kick him the hell out.

“I -” his awkwardness surrenders to pure boldness, and he grins at you, dragging over the slit of his cock with his thumb and picking up a new, languid rhythm. “I’m making the first move.”

You don’t say anything, torn between resentment and a rush of molten heat that settled in the pit of your stomach.

“Or - hm - maybe you can’t handle all I have to offer.”

You exhale forcefully, the sound harsh and abrupt, and you’re standing in front of him in a few long steps, blood boiling at his misplaced smugness. Has this guy even had the time to lose his virginity?

The question doesn’t bother you too much, because you’re quickly grabbing a fist full of his hair and yanking his head up, his strokes faltering as you bring your mouth close to his. “Oh, Sweetheart, you can’t handle me,” you murmur, voice raspy and rough.

A loud keen rips from his chest, and then -

And then -

He surges up to kiss you.

His mouth is  _ soft _ , and surprisingly warm.

And he doesn’t spare a moment before his tongue is coaxing your lips open and dancing with yours. The kiss is more of an aggressive collision of teeth, and he breaks it to ask you, “are you going to make me beg?”

The line between teasing and hope is thin.

You don’t answer, reuniting your lips in a mess of tongues clashing over and over and over again, his cock and your panties abandoned so he could work the zipper on the back of your dress. You pull away when it drops and pools at your feet. He licks at the edges of your collarbone once - twice - three times trying to get you to whimper and mewl. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and he plants a kiss to the center of your chest. He tries to unhook your bra, clumsy and inexperienced fingers failing, and you have to take it off yourself before he tears it off.

The bra is blindly thrown across the room and then he’s thumbing your nipples like he isn’t sure how to touch them. You shudder, as he flicks his unsure tongue over the top of your breast, and his teeth latch onto your skin like he wants to leave a bruise, a piece of proof.

A sigh leaves you before you’re gently pushing him back with one hand. “No marks.”

Michael scowls in disappointment.

You shove him down before he thinks to complain.

You pull down your panties and kick them away, climbing on the bed and swinging one leg across his chest. His nostrils flare with heavy breathes, and his impatience gets the better of him when he wraps his hands around both knees and all but lifts you to his face.

_ Smack. _

You imagine the impact of your palm against his cheek is painful, stings even, as tears gather in his blonde lashes. 

And what you couldn’t predict was the way his head tips back with a loud groan.

“I’m the one who pushes you around,” Your hand tangles in his hair at the same time he noses at your folds, sniffling against the seam of your thigh. He moans like your smell is his new favorite scent, low and something fierce, mumbling soft sorrys.

Your breath catches hard in your throat. 

You tug his hair hard enough to grab his attention and when his eyes peer up at you, you tell him, “eat.”

You don’t have to tell him twice.

His mouth latches onto your pussy with a startling hunger, his tongue prying your slick folds open, and your lips part, just a little, as your head falls back. He laps at your slit like he was dying of thirst, and you quietly gasp his name and shudder, his enthusiasm making up for his lack of experience.

You let your breath leave you with one shaky laugh. “Yeah just like that,” you say softly, pausing for just a moment to look back and watch his length. The head is an angry shade of purple, leaking rivets of precum as you grind down harder on his face, twitching like it wanted so desperately to switch places.

With a grin, you look back at Michael and encourage him, “you only come up when you absolutely need air, just like swimming.”

And from the way his lips flex against you more eagerly, if that was even possible, sucking on your clit while his teeth scrape against sensitive flesh, eating, swallowing - you think he’d be ok with drowning.

You shudder and you tremble and then glide your palm down his chest and stomach, leaning back so you could wrap your hand around the base of his weeping length, and he grunts into you, grip around your legs tensing, spearing you further onto his face.

He’s staring up at you now, eyes half-lidded and struggling to stay open as you brush back his hair so you can see him better, watching as he silently begs for more. You stroke him sloppy and slow and work out more drops of precum from his red tip.

Every last nerve in your body catches flame when Michael clumsily places his hand between your thighs, and your mind short-circuits and you can’t breathe and he’s prodding around your hole with two fingers -

“Michael,” you groan, frantic, and you lift your hips to let him breathe before you completely suffocate him in your climax, but his face follows you up and his hold tightens to keep you still, squeezing, begging that you stay. Your hips roll forwards and then backwards, muscles  _ tensing  _ \- 

“Michael,” you repeat, commanding, harshly yanking his hair back, and he’s only able to whine “yes?” like he’s already dazed and fucked-out. You tell him to ‘let go’, and he listens, removing his slick-coated fingers and releasing his bruising grip with an all too adorable pout on his face.

You caress his cheek for his obedience before moving down the length of his body. He desperately tries to follow you as you move back, and you giggle, the sound rich and dark - you’re quick to push him flat down on the bed. “Can I touch you?” he lifts his hands to your hips, not quite touching. “Please, (y/n).” his voice shakes and you nod.

The moment he grabs your waist, you lower your slippery cunt on his length, grinding down against him without letting him inside. It sends a warm, slow ache to your swollen clit that radiates up your chest as you rock your hips back and forth.

“I would’ve never thought that the Antichrist could be fucked into submission.”

He flushes at the snide remark, that beautiful red spreading across his cheeks and ears and disappearing under his shirt. You roll your hips harder, ripping open the buttons on his top so you could trace the red blotches seizing the skin of his chest, and he begs you to never ever stop, smart enough to not try and guide you along. You trace a finger around his nipple and pinch it as you continue grinding, grinning as you ask him, “you’re such a good boy, aren’t you?”

“Yesss,” he’s breathless, struggling to not thrust up against you, to not try and sink into you as he gasps. You’re tempted to rise up and out of his grip so he’s forced to rut up against nothing and just - cry and beg to be welcomed into your satin walls.

What he says next has you going blank for a moment, but the plea goes straight to your heat and the only thought in your head is that you want him to say it again. 

“Mommy, please.”

You keep yourself still on his cock, asking to hear it again.

“ _ Mommy _ , please, I - I’ve been a good boy, please let me inside of you,“ Michael whispers, his member twitching under you, and you know he can feel the shiver that snakes along your spine.

You feel like you’ve tamed a great, wild animal when you place a hand on his throat and lean down to kiss him. He absolutely melts as you swallow up his pants, slick still leaking onto him as you tangle your fingers in his hair like he’s liable to disappear at any moment – your aggression isn’t unexpected as you squeeze his neck harder -

And he gasps into you, and you have to pull away so you can see his bruised lips and blown out pupils and tear soaked cheeks, and you just have to bend down to collect the wetness on your tongue.

You dig your nails into his shoulders.

He stares at you like you hung the stars in the night sky.

The muscles in your abdomen tighten and burn as you wrap your hand around him and lower yourself down, and his pelvis is so drenched in your slick that he’s easy to sink in despite his size.

Michael stutters a combination of vowels that sounds like your name as you bury him completely inside of you, quivering around him, and you’re impressed by how much he fills you. “Breathe,” you purr, and he whines through his next inhale. “Thank you, thank you -” his mouth parts wide as a soft, needy gasp cuts his words off, and you ignore him as move in earnest, pace unforgiving and fast.

You lift his hands and place them on your breasts, choking on a broken moan when he pinches your nipples between his fingers. You skim your own fingertips over the expanse of his torso before planting them on his chest, needing something to anchor you as you bounce harder, faster, working him until you’re shaking and your toes are curling and god, you’re making Mommy feel so good - 

Michael jerks his hips into you, a strangled and reckless noise echoing throughout the room as he slams so far into your depths with enough force that you think he might actually break you. You gasp and moan and clench around him and you’re soon there, ready to let go - “I’m s-s-sorry,” he cries, reaching his peak before you.

His head slumps back into the mattress, a steady stream of cum flowing out of him and onto the walls of your pussy, sending flashing flares of pleasure that spread throughout your whole body. “I didn’t say you could do that,” you scold, milking him for everything he’s worth anyways as your orgasm fades away, thighs shaking and clit  _ aching _ , and when he’s too busy catching his breath, you move up and rest your knees on the sides of his head.

You card your fingers through his hair again, rough, angry, grabbing his attention while the mixture of your fluids leaks from your hole and onto his lips.

“ _ Eat _ .”


End file.
